For many years I`ve been having the same dream, which became kind of inevitable reality, where I get into my own car and drive along a partly sleepy midnight city towards my fate, which seems to be waiting for me over the corner.
But here is a turn, here is one more, and again a turn – and there happens absolutely nothing again. I put on gas again just as if kind of unknown inevitability makes me go further.
The turns are flashing again. It goes on day after day: highways, streets, lamps, the turns are flashing over the window as if necessary attributes of road decorations in an endless performance, which had no beginning and will have no ending. I am trying to understand where and why I am going, but the road is endless, and there are only decorations all around, and my mind, finding no answer to it, tosses me one more idea that at the next turn a real life will begin, making me move further and further in searches of ghostly hope.
Taking the same actions day after day, I got used to pushing gas and driving, so that I stopped noticing, how I do that. And now it seems, but no, I am sure now, that the world is constantly moving around me on its own. Everything got mixed up and I am not able to figure out what is a dream and what is reality and when your imagination begins to seem real. I am trying to understand: who am I? Why am I? Where am I? Where am I going? But the answers, coming into my head, cause only more questions, among which the same one is appearing more often just as if an advertisement billboard on the side of the road: is that me real, who dreams it, or life is just a dream, in which I am dreamed?
From such thoughts I got thirsty. I find a night kiosk and stop to buy a bottle of precious water. Having made several swallows greedily, I take away from the bottleneck and suddenly notice that the world has stopped and moves nowhere. And than, as if after a long amnesia, slowly comes awareness of the idea that, what seems as constantly changing world is just a movement of thoughts, which happens in my mind. And nothing real in it can be. No roads, no decorations, no movements exist, all that happens only as imagination in my consciousness, a game, which I wished to play once by myself, but got so fascinated that I forgot about everything, believing that the sense of this game is the road, which seemed to be the life of my `I` in this dream.
Author: Stanislav Milevich
Translator: Nataly Zhemchugova